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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, you fragrant petal.
Underneath The Skin 7-March-2005
The head should have a garbage chute. Well, aside from the mouth. Too much garbage spewing out of mouths these days. I'm talking about a nice sloping channel attached to the thought area, effecting the removal of useless, shitty cogitations. Yeah, I want one of those. Stainless steel, because I don't want that thing rusting and going all to hell.
So, this illness is all over my nerves. All these years I've been hoping there's a point to it, that it is not simply for nothing, that maybe I'm supposed to learn something from it. But what? I have learned what it feels like to wave goodbye to the life I planned, but so many other people have done the same. They may not have been sideswiped by pain; perhaps their course was altered by responsibility or fear or something else, but it doesn't matter. It's all the same. And I now know how it feels, which does make me more sympathetic to others who feel disoriented each day upon rising, wondering what happened to their future. For me, there are times even the sun shining through the window in the morning seems to be playing its part in some practical joke aimed at me. The sun is laughing at me, taunting me, singing songs like "Nanny, nanny, nanny goat, everyone has a life and you don't." But deep down I know that's only in my mind.
During this time of aching I have seen glimpses of what matters and what doesn't. I sometimes take good, long looks that stay with me like tattoos. I get caught up in bullshit and eventually remember the beauty of what I would never want to lose. I often see years ahead where I think back to how I spent so many hours, tortured by insecurity and a longing to feel a part of something, when all along I was a part of much more than I realized; I simply wasn't paying attention to what mattered. And what matters is most often what I take for granted. I don't want to feel ashamed and I don't want to feel bitter for having missed out on what was right there in front of me all along.
I have seen more of what I want and don't want. Illness can be like a war raging inside you, but in quiet moments the rubble of those defensive walls built over time is cleared, providing a sharper picture of the overall scene. I don't always know how to move toward what I see, but at least I can see it where once there was only hardened clay and mortar.
And I know I want to cry without that twisting, burning sensation in my jaw from years of bottled up words. I want to leave the house without makeup and know that I'm still beautiful, whether you notice me or not. You may never see what it is that makes me beautiful anyway, and I want to be grateful for those who care to look past changeable details and see who I am.
I want to read your words and feel inspired, not stupid, not useless. And when I hear your music I hope to hear my own. I want to change the world and change my mind whenever I feel like it. I want to remember the night sky when I'm drowning in everything I seem unable to let go, and know I would be better off with open hands than clenched fists.
Every word you said was not unkind, but I carefully set aside the sordid ones and tattooed them on the insides of my eyelids. Every time I blink there they are. I want to find a tattoo artist who can turn those words into something else, like a flower, a dragon, a butterfly, or even a festive belly dancer.
I want to melt this bitterness with a bunch of Hershey bars and make some semi-sweet.
I want to recognize my face in the mirror and not have to wonder who I am. I don't want to sweat and shake at the thought of interaction, at the fear of what you'll think of me; you'll think it anyway. I hope you won't come unglued if I ever stop hating myself; don't let it shake you up, because I'll never take anything away from you. You'll have yours and I'll have mine, even if one of us knows there's no difference.
I want to step inside each moment and linger there until it's gone, memorizing each detail, every line, as if there'll be a test tomorrow. I want to enjoy every bite without thinking about the next while I'm still busy chewing. I want to remember what I felt about my future when I was eight.
I want to contradict myself gently here and there and get to know myself better somewhere in the distinction. I don't want to envy you anymore for not knowing what you want, and therefore not being nearly as close to disappointment as I am.
I want to stay up late and wake up at the crack of dawn, well-rested.
I want to hold your hand in public and not be run out of town on a rail. I want to feel free to say "fuck you!" when someone is too cruel for a kinder answer, and not feel guilty that I should have been above it all. When I falter or forget things, I want the forgiveness I seek to be my own.
I want to remember and cherish what matters. I want to overcome what doesn't. I could list what is insignificant but this page cannot go on forever. What is important only needs the smallest piece of paper yet expands from that into the atmosphere, bleeding into everything in that sweetest, most graceful way. It won't track you down like useless things, and it won't tie you up or demand your full attention. You have to strip yourself a little bare of needlessness to feel the warmth of it seeping beneath your skin.
All of this, that's what I want. I think this pain has brought me closer to what resides inside my heart. And even though I curse it and pray for its demise, I'm fairly certain I would have missed out on something meaningful without it.
Before I go I must ask this: why do raspberries taste like artichokes to me? Earlier I ate some raspberry sorbet which may as well have been sold as artichoke sorbet. Is this an isolated phenomenon or do others share this bizarre taste exchange? It's not just with the raspberry sorbet either. Just about anything with the natural raspberry flavour (aside from an actual raspberry) will taste like an artichoke to me. But, strangely, artichokes do not taste like actual raspberries. I am just going to quietly leave this topic.
Quote From My World
"Honey, you can't play in the drawer without Mommy."
-my sister
Well, I'm off to do whatever it is I do. Whatever it is you do, I hope it makes you happy. And I hope you remember what's meaningful to you. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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